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"Democrat!" shouted the chestnut vender triumphantly. "No, sir! Yoost politigs," replied the unpartisan Bertha. "You keeb oud politigs." "Ahaha, du libra Ogostine, Ogostine, Ogostine! Ahaha, du libra Ogostine, Nees coma ross."
For this, he had been rewarded by Pixley, his precinct committee-man, who allowed him to carry pink torches in three night processions. "You keeb oud politigs," said Bertha, earnestly, one evening. "My uncle, Louie Gratz, he iss got a neighbour-lady; her man gone in politigs. Aftervorts he git it! He iss in der bennidenshierry two years. You know why?"
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